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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416849">décaféiné</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers'>sonshineandshowers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Martin's Murder Playlist [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Through 1x18, Triggers, but hopeful, sad af</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:00:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,525</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416849</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm walks to a café for breakfast. He takes in his food, his surroundings, the music. He leaves in a different carriage.</p><p>Content through 1x18.</p><p>Martin's Murder Playlist Series: Operator.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Martin's Murder Playlist [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>décaféiné</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/576721">Operator (That's Not the Way it Feels)</a> by Jim Croce (performed by).
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm’s large americano, four pumps of sugar does little to wake him from feeling dead inside, his organs plodding along in an assembly line like clockwork rather than serving true purpose. He breaks off a piece of croissant, the buttery flakes sliding between his fingers and salting his tongue. When someone sits across from him, he doesn’t know if salt or sugar will come out.</p><p>“Hi, kid.” The man stirs the foam into his own cappuccino, spoon clinking against the sides of the red mug.</p><p>Malcolm’s thumb slips back into the pastry, peeling apart the layers in his grip and soaking them into his tongue. The espresso mixes in, turning the dough into a sponge he can keep sucking energy out of until it falls apart and he swallows.</p><p>“You look like hell,” the man adds, breaking off a piece of plain bagel with cream cheese spread on thick so it coats his tongue on its way to a quick chew and gets downed. Malcolm doesn’t look, doesn’t watch his goatee shift one moment and hinge the next, efficiently clearing his breakfast. He just knows — it’s a meal of necessity so the man can be off to the next thing in his day, unlike dinners he labors over and savors with people who love him.</p><p>Malcolm looks out the window, wondering what it would be like to be the girl on the street buzzing on an electric scooter, brash pink clashing with electric green, cat ear headphones beating to her own drum. Was it K-pop? Or EDM? A dissonant country?</p><p>The man keeps providing all the commentary. “Did you see your dad again?”</p><p>Malcolm’s running out of flakes to play with, so he traps one in his mouth as long as he can, overflowing its structure with swig after swig of americano until it bleeds into his lips, leaving behind a dark line he needs to blot with a napkin. He doesn’t. The burst of sugar and caffeine doesn’t make him feel more alive either.</p><p>Eight bars of melancholic acoustic guitar play through the café’s weathered speakers. Malcolm brings his mug to his lips and lets the warm espresso rise into his nose — deep, nutty, notes of cocoa. Without the croissant to balance it out, it tastes bitter, acrid.</p><p><em>Operator,</em> starts a whisper, then grows into, <em>well could you help me place this call?</em>, the singer’s request reaching out to the audience in a mellow timbre to pull them into the story.</p><p>“<em>My boy</em>.” His dad’s strong hug wraps across his back, his hand going to ruffle his hair. His pajamas are wrinkled from tossing and turning, and there are early manifestations of black under his eyes.</p><p>Guitar calls to Malcolm from the basement. <em>See, the number on the matchbook is old and faded</em> — it’s what they listen to on every camping trip. “Dad, I want to come too,” he says, clutching the mug of cocoa his dad pushes into his hands.</p><p>“Son, you should be in bed,” his dad soothes, his beard brushing against Malcolm’s cheek.</p><p><em>A guy she said she knew well and sometimes hated</em> — Malcolm mouths along with the tune, not confident enough for words to come out, but entranced just the same. He looks toward the basement door, wanting to join whatever his dad is up to. Pirates, anatomy, microscopes, planning their next adventure into the woods — he wants in.</p><p>“Go back to bed,” his dad encourages and lets go of his hold.</p><p>Malcolm bolts for the stairs, only one thing calling him. His short legs hop over every other one, thumping and scrambling for the prize his father’s hiding while everyone else must sleep.</p><p><em>I only wish my words could just convince myself that it just wasn’t real, but that’s not the way it feels</em> — In suspended animation, a girl’s floating in a chair, wrapped in ties he’s only seen described in haunting tales, cloth across her face and terror in her eyes. She has the needle for an IV — is she sick? Does she need help? Her eyes are shedding tears he peels back to try to understand what brought her to their house in the middle of the night. Her hands shake, her jaw trembles — she seems <em>so</em> scared. Should he be too?</p><p>He unleashes a high-pitched scream, dropping his mug, it shattering and spewing the little bit of cocoa left across the concrete. An arm and a hand wrap around him from behind, pinning him in place, a rough cloth scratching against his mouth and nose. He struggles, flailing and kicking in an attempt to escape.</p><p>He keeps looking at the girl, wondering what he missed to not be afraid sooner. <em>There’s something in my eyes, you know it happens every time I think about a love that I thought would save me</em> — he’s going to die, <em>she’s</em> going to die, his dad — his whole <em>family</em> — they’re all going to <em>die</em>. And it’s his <em>fault</em> — he should have screamed earlier.</p><p>He blacks out.</p><p><em>So I can call just to tell ‘em I’m fine and to show I’ve overcome the blow, I’ve learned to take it well</em> — his red mug is in pieces across the tile floor of the café, blotches of coffee strewn along with it. He’s clutching his head, rocking curled up with his face on the cold tile, shards of ceramic pointing at him. Everything he senses turns his stomach, and his little managed breakfast joins the wreckage.</p><p>“I think he’s ODing,” shouts a voice he can’t place.</p><p>“Did someone call the paramedics?” exclaims another.</p><p>“<em>You</em> — call 911,” someone else says with a practiced, calm authority.</p><p>He’s pulled away from the mess, a coarse napkin brushes his face, and fingers poke at his neck. <em>I’m fine</em>, he tries to say to get the hands to leave, but he can’t get anything out. His head is wadded with cotton — sounds keep pushing through and fading.</p><p>Hands paw into his pants pockets and he curls further, trying to keep them off. They disappear just as quickly.</p><p>“You’re the in case of emergency contact in his phone. Ambulance is on its way,” the calm voice relays.</p><p>The voice asks him to “breathe with me,” and after enough ragged attempts, he can tell she’s female. A doctor, or a nurse maybe. Another patron at the café. The <em>café</em> — <em>operator, well let’s forget about this call</em> — his breathing speeds up and he’s peeling on his way to hyperventilating again.</p><p>He almost hangs up on the police. His mom told him to go get ready for bed, and he punched keys on a phone reserved for Luisa near the kitchen instead. The receiver shakes in his grasp, wavering as much as his voice that can’t produce the words.</p><p>“911, what’s your emergency?” the woman’s voice repeats.</p><p>“My dad’s a murderer.” He barely hears himself and hopes she understands, as he doesn’t think he can repeat it again.</p><p>“Malcolm!” his mom’s voice calls from the other room.</p><p>He speeds through the address and blurts, “Please send help,” hanging up and rushing to the bathroom so he has an excuse before anyone can find him. He goes to his mother without incident, and she sends him to get ready for bed.</p><p>Malcolm sneaks out of his room when he hears the front door open, tiptoeing to find a police officer in the entryway. He tugs his sleeve and the man gives him a huge smile, “What’s up, kid?”</p><p><em>Gil</em>. He gives him a sour apple candy that his stress worries into his cheeks, cuts the roof of his mouth, leaves sores on his tongue, but on Gil’s words of “You’re a real hero,” he can still taste the sweet. Can still hear whispers of his voice telling him, “Don’t you ever forget it.” Can still feel the minuscule smile trying so hard to edge the corner of his mouth, Gil beaming back at him even though he’d failed. He needs to <em>try</em> —</p><p>“Gil,” he eeks out, his voice foreign to his ears.</p><p>“He’s meeting you at the hospital,” her calm voice tells him.</p><p>In tatters on the floor of the café, he <em>remembers</em>.</p><p>One girl he last saw very much alive. Another — how many others? — were dead. A ripped up box of memories he might never be able to put back together. Sirens blaze through his head — is retrieving them out of the lost and found so many years later detrimental to his health? Why didn’t he just call Gil instead of thinking of him?</p><p>Because sometimes, he still didn’t have the confidence to talk, to ask for help. Because he knew what Gil would say. “Hi, kid. You look like hell. Did you see your dad again?”</p><p>And the truth is, he can’t stop seeing him. He can’t bare to remove the smile from Gil’s face telling him. He can’t sleep, either. And he won’t be able to stitch himself together before his carriage reaches the hospital.</p><p>The world buzzes by out the ambulance windows, budding pink magnolias blurring into unfurling leaves until his eyes close to the silence of darkness that soothes — Gil is waiting.</p><p>“Don’t you ever forget it.”</p>
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  <em>fin</em>
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